


Comfort in the Night

by CrownKiller



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownKiller/pseuds/CrownKiller
Summary: Party has a breakdown and Jet is there to offer comfort
Relationships: Jet Star/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Comfort in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I need to clarify that I see the killjoys as separate characters and not as like the actual people in the band.

Party was in a mood. The knowledge sometimes just slammed into people like a sledgehammer. How they were fugitives running from the law, living a soulless life with only the imprints of their steps on the sand left when they died, and how those too would quickly fade. Everyone in the group got them once in a blue moon. Ghoul always disappeared into his workshop, old music blasting and occasional explosions and muffled cursing. Kobra would just leave, driving his motorcycle out with a grim set to his face. He would return a few days later, eyes hard and gas tank empty. Jet would go up to the roof and stargaze, mournfully strumming a few tunes on the battered guitar he'd traded way too many credits for. 

But Party didn't get them too often. Kobra and Ghoul were out on a run, so it was up to Jet to make sure he didn't do anything rash. He knocked gently on the door of his room, then slowly creaked the door open. He took a few steps in, feet crunching on odds and ends strewn on the floor: a paintbrush here, a mask there and some old eyeshadow. Party was lying in the middle of the mess, eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling in a dead stare. He moved to stand over him. He had earbuds and was listening to something loud. His eyes drifted over to look at Jet, then flicked back to the same spot in the ceiling. Slowly, without talking, he shifted over, leaving enough space for Jet. He slid down and settled next to Party. He offered an earbud to him and he popped it in and lay down. Sometimes talking was too much effort. Just being there was enough for now. The songs were garage-band quality and had nostalgic undertones. He found Party’s hand and squeezed. He didn't squeeze back, but also didn't pull away.

Jet had no idea how long they lay there listening to these old forgotten songs, sung by hopeful people of times past who were either dead or drugged out of their minds now. Thoughts swirled through his head of things he needed to do: get more supplies from Tommy, visit Dr. D, clean and power his blaster, and on and on. Still Jet lay on the floor in Party’s room, holding his hand. The sunlight crept across the room and slowly began to fade. It was only when a lone voice faded about and a faint click and whirr sounded on his ear that he realized the tape was over. He turned his head to look at Party. With the last dregs of sunlight he was able to see that he was still staring at the ceiling, eyes stuck in the past and looking so sad.

Abruptly he moved and sat up. He walked across the room and left for the common area. By the time Jet and scrambled after him, he had already gotten two cans of Power Pup out and was ferociously cranking them open. He hopped up on the counter, and offered one to Jet. Not knowing what to do, he took it and they ate in silence for a few. Finally he set his can down and faced him. “Are you okay?” It was the stupidest question in the world, but it got hard after a while to admit that you were anything but fine when you were one of the faces of the rebels. 

Party froze, spoon trembling in his hand. His head was down and his bright-red hair was concealing his face. Eventually he put his can down off to the side and raised his eyes to meet Jet’s. His eyes shone with unshed tears and he slowly shook his head no. Jet did the only thing he knew how to do: stepped close and pulled him in for a hug. He felt Party’s hands hesitate, then close around him and grasp his shirt tightly. He cradled his head against his chest and felt tears soak through his thin shirt material. He didn't let go, and they stayed in the dark kitchen, one figure quavering with the extreme burden put on their shoulders so young, leaning one the other figure, steady and supportive in his silence.

. . . 

The next morning Party slid into the booth for breakfast. Kobra and Ghoul had returned way late at night and were laughing over some stupid antic they'd gotten away with. Party gave no hints of the breakdown he'd had. His outfit was as bright as ever and hair was perfectly mussed. But as they ate breakfast, his hand found its way to Jets and squeezed. A smile made his way over his face as he squeezed back.


End file.
